The Austrian: Book Two Page 12

  Everything was my fault – I was the malevolent, cold-blooded force behind Hitler, Himmler and everyone else who had decided to tie anything non-Aryan into a tangled knot filled with hatred. They pointed their fingers at me with a spitefulness that even Heydrich would have envied, if he were still alive.

  The former Reichsmarschall, Göring, was right after all: the Soviet commanders did hold a grudge for not catching me first, but not so much at the Americans, as at me, no matter how strange that was.

  “The defendant Ernst Kaltenbrunner was considered by Himmler as the most deserving successor to the hangman, Heydrich. Kandutor described the manner in which Kaltenbrunner passed his time on one of his visits to the camp: “Laughing, Kaltenbrunner entered the gas chamber, then the prisoners were led from the barracks to their execution, and all three methods of execution were demonstrated – hanging, shooting in the neck, and gassing.” I shall not dwell upon the numerous proofs available, since they have been sufficiently clarified before the Tribunal. And when Kaltenbrunner’s fate is decided, all the victims who were asphyxiated in the ‘murder vans’ near Stavropol, buried alive in the graves near Kiev and Riga, burnt alive in the Belorussian villages, must never be forgotten. All these innocent victims are on his unclean consciousness. Successor to a hangman, and himself a hangman, Kaltenbrunner carried out the most revolting function in the common criminal plan of the Hitlerite clique…”

  I was listening to the translation of Rudenko’s words in a desperate state, hoping that my native German language would somewhat lessen the horror of it, but it was still there – the shame for something that I never had any control of and yet it made me hide my eyes from their accusatory looks.

  It was shameful, so very shameful. I cursed my unexplainable luck every single day; the luck to survive when I had every reason to be dead; to survive so to follow through with this agonizing, shameful path to the very end. Why didn’t I die in one of the air raids under the British bombs? Why did death keep escaping me? The more I pursued it, the more it seemed to laugh in my face. The more alcohol I poured into myself, the less it affected me. I never suffered from anything more than a slight hangover, when healthy people were dying from cirrhosis. I chain-smoked packs and packs of cigarettes and it didn’t even make me cough in the morning like it did with others. I went to the mountains in the very end of the war and made my last stakeout in a hunter’s hut, ready to die there and then, fighting to the last bullet, but even that very last honor hadn’t been granted to me.

  The American, with lifeless grey eyes and the grin of a dead man, which reminded me of Heydrich for some reason, appeared at the doors, unarmed and alone, asked for five minutes of my time and then explained to me in detail why I wouldn’t die fighting but had no other choice than give myself up. He took a small package out of his inner pocket and dropped what was inside it onto my lap, smiling crookedly. He was smiling when he saw the recognition in my eyes, and smiled even wider when I gasped in horror, realizing that they had their trump card… that they had her, and that from that moment my life was connected to hers with a wicked invisible cord, and if I decided to get myself killed, they would kill her too; a woman who was working for them all these years, their own agent, who they would eliminate just for retaliation.

  He laughed in my face when I almost charged at him across the table. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Kaltenbrunner. If I don’t come out of here alive, your pregnant whore won’t see another day. My people have an order to hang her if I don’t come back with you in a few hours.”

  “Your superiors will never allow you to hang a pregnant woman.”

  “She’s already dead, on paper. I will only make it into a reality.”

  I let him handcuff me and take me away. But it didn’t matter; my own life didn’t matter as long as she was alive.

  “Asphyxiated.” Göring interrupted my frightening memories, mocking the Soviet prosecution with contempt during the recess, muttering under his breath but in a way that I could hear him. “It was from their NKVD that we borrowed the idea of those ‘murder vans’! Their own NKVD constructed the very first van on Stalin’s order during the political purge of 1937, when they beheaded, shot and gassed hundreds of their army commanders! But we’re the evil spawn, certainly. Stalin is a saint. He never murdered anyone. He never murdered any Jews, only we did.”

  I responded with bitter contempt. “All of us are guilty, both Germans and Russians. And the French, whose resistance wasn’t any better than our Gestapo whenever they got hands on our people, and who are taking their hatred and revenge out on innocent women, their own French women who had the misfortune to fall in love with our soldiers, or for whom befriending our soldiers was the only way to survive. It was an ugly war, and it brought up the ugliest of traits in all of us. None of us is an innocent party, and we shouldn’t shift our guilt on anyone else.”

  “I never expected you to say such words,” Göring said, glancing at me with suspicion. “With your ultimate puppet-master Himmler, who got you into this noose.”

  “Nobody got me into this noose except for myself, Herr Reichsmarschall.” I sighed. “I got myself into this noose for not resisting Himmler enough. There were people, good, conscientious officers who did. They did all they could when they learned about the mistreatments, and they had the courage to risk their lives by going against orders to help those innocent victims. I had the honor to know one of them, Hosenfeld his name was, and he—”

  “He’s probably rotting away in one of the NKVD camps, if he had the misfortune to survive and get captured.” Göring interrupted me sternly and mercilessly. “You can have all the honor in the world, Kaltenbrunner, but as you said yourself, it was an ugly war, and the Russkies won’t waste their time on sorting out who’s innocent and who’s guilty. You’re a German, and that’s your verdict. We’re all going to die, good and bad. God will sort us out later. So I’ll see you in hell, I suppose.”

  He laughed all of a sudden, with some strange, hopeless and sinister mirth that reminded me of a wounded fox, which knows it’s about to get ripped apart by hunting dogs and out of its last reserve of power it still finds the courage to laugh in their faces. I shuddered and looked away.

  _______________

  Paris, September 1940

  She glanced at the big clock on the wall and looked away without noticing me, but even a second was enough for me to instantly recognize her face and forget how to breathe for a moment. For some unexplainable reason, fate brought us together again, in a place I expected to see her the least – the hotel Ritz in the French capital.

  The French gave in fairly quickly, and our troops soon marched into deserted Paris, much to the Führer’s pride and satisfaction. He had already made a tour around the city together with Albert Speer, and he was now busy making arrangements for signing the peace treaty in the same train car in which the humiliating Versailles Treaty had been signed, that doomed both Germany and Austria to many years of starvation and a miserable existence.

  I was summoned to Pairs by Reichsführer Himmler on behalf of the Austrian intelligence. I had no particular purpose to be here, and, to be truthful, I suspected that Himmler only wanted to enhance his entourage by having two Gestapo chiefs instead of one. As soon as we got off the plane he made me and Heydrich follow him to the meeting with the Führer before I even had a chance to settle down in my suite. Reichsführer seemed to find some vain pleasure in having two menacing looking SS leaders standing at attention behind his back – two opposites in looks and character, but bound by the same oath.

  “Nice freckles, Snowhite.” I didn’t miss my chance to taunt the Chief of the RSHA, knowing his unhealthy insecurity about the barely noticeable flaw that he despised in himself. I had accidentally found out the information that Heydrich asked for nothing to be retouched in his pictures besides his freckles, from a photographer who was taking our official portraits for some magazine, and I instantly knew that it would be a very nice addition to a wide collection of
insults that I threw his way at every possible occasion.

  “Nice skin color, Kaltenbrunner. Is it a tan or haven’t you washed your face in a while?” he replied through gritted teeth, looking straight ahead.

  I couldn’t help it and sneered, glad that I got to him after all. Himmler turned around and tsked at the two of us, making big eyes and motioning his head at the Führer. However, the latter had a hawk’s sight and hearing, and lifted his heavy gaze toward us from the papers that one of his generals was holding in front of him.

  “What are you two laughing about over there?”

  “Nothing, my Führer.” I answered as calmly as I could. “Gruppenführer Heydrich complemented my complexion. I found it amusing that he chose to generously pay his attention to it, despite the circumstances and the importance of this meeting. I apologize.”

  Heydrich looked at me with horror painted on his suddenly pale face. The Führer frowned slightly, and Himmler muttered a curse under his breath. Reichsmarschall Göring chuckled together with several other people from the Führer’s entourage.

  “It is certainly very nice of you to pay attention to such trivial details, Gruppenführer Heydrich, but we do have more important things to do than complement our colleagues at this particular moment,” Hitler said coolly, addressing Heydrich.

  “Jawohl, my Führer.” The Chief of the RSHA lowered his head. “I apologize.”

  As soon as Hitler was busy with the papers again, Heydrich turned to me and whispered with all the hatred he felt for me, “I swear to God, I will find a way to murder you one day, Kaltenbrunner!”

  “Likewise, Snowhite.”

  Himmler dismissed me at the first chance he had, fearing that in my jesting mood I would do or say something even worse. That’s how I found myself in the hotel Ritz, finally alone and in peace, with Georg making arrangements for my suite, when I saw Frau Friedmann.

  However, she was not alone. She was sitting with some Waffen-SS officer, so young and handsome that he could easily be the perfect poster soldier for the Ministry of Propaganda with his fair looks and his open smile. I frowned when I noticed that the two of them were not only talking animatedly, but holding hands on top of it. With inward horror and disgust I caught myself thinking that I was jealous of her, yes, most definitely jealous. I was almost appalled at her betrayal when she reached out and brushed the bangs off that sickeningly handsome soldier’s forehead, at how she was laughing at something he was telling her, and angry with him for the adoration that he was looking at her with. How dare he hold her hands when she was mine?!

  She’s not yours. The inner voice tried to say something before I snapped at it and made it shut up, once and for all. Mine! She’s mine!

  “Herr Gruppenführer?” Georg touched my sleeve, and only now I realized that he must have called me several times and I didn’t hear his voice. “We’re ready to go upstairs, if you are.”

  I nodded and walked with intentional slowness in the direction of the elevator, closer than necessary to the table they were sitting at. The young officer saw me eventually and jumped to his feet, giving me a sharp salute.

  “Heil Hitler, Herr Gruppenführer!”

  I stopped and started scrutinizing his chiseled features, trying to find at least one flaw in him, and admitted to myself, with hatred, that there was none. Only something strangely familiar, as if I’d seen him somewhere before…

  “What the hell are you doing holding hands with a married woman, soldier?” I addressed him sarcastically, not able to contain the anger boiling within me. Why was I even so angry with him? I wasn’t Annalise’s husband, so what did I care if she had found herself someone on the side that was so grotesquely perfect? Nevertheless, I smirked and added, eyeing him from head to toes, “Or, hadn’t you noticed a ring on her finger?”

  Annalise Friedmann turned in her chair and beamed at me as if nothing had happened. I wanted to strangle them both at that point.

  “She’s my sister, Herr Gruppenführer,” the soldier answered meanwhile, leaving me speechless for a moment. At last I regained my composure and laughed with relief, not even knowing why. It’s her brother. How stupid of me, really. That’s why he looked so familiar; they share the same features, like two picture perfect Aryan twins.

  “Your sister?” I looked from him to Frau Friedmann and back. She gave me her hand and I took it in mine, completely forgetting the murderous state that I’d been in just moments ago. “Yes, I do see the family resemblance now. And I thought you were cheating on your husband with a regular Waffen SS, Frau Friedmann.”

  “No, I only cheat on my husband with high-ranking SS officers, like yourself, Herr Gruppenführer,” she replied with a sly grin.

  I let go of her hand very reluctantly as she introduced her brother to me; Untersturmführer Norbert Meissner of the Waffen SS, currently stationed in Warsaw. With a dignified, unemotional face he admitted to me that he was one of the guards in the newly constructed ghetto. I squinted my eyes for a second, recalling the day of my inspection in my mind and wondering if he was present when I was reading out Heydrich’s order. Deep inside I hoped that he wasn’t, because I definitely didn’t want him to tell his sister about the contents of that order. I highly doubted that she would approve of it.

  Georg’s shuffling reminded me of his existence and that I needed to go shower and shave after the long trip in order to be ready on time for the reception later that night. The only bright thought on that matter was that my beautiful Frau Friedmann could be there, even though most likely with her husband. I fought the desire to ask her if she was attending, but at the last moment thought better of it, not wanting to make the wrong impression on her brother.

  “Maybe I’ll see you around, Frau Friedmann,” I said instead and nodded at her.

  She presented me with the most radiant smile and replied, “I look forward to it, Herr Gruppenführer.”

  She reached for my hand and pressed it. Without letting go of her hand, I lowered my head and kissed her delicate fingers, catching a slight whiff of perfume on her wrist. Frau Friedmann blushed slightly and smiled wider.

  In the elevator, as soon as the doors closed, Georg suddenly chimed out, “What a beautiful lady.”

  I gave him a murderous look that immediately wiped the silly smile off his face.

  “I m-meant that… for you. She… you… you two would make a beautiful couple.” Stuttering, he still tried to get himself out of trouble.

  After those words I was in too good of a mood to get mad at my young adjutant, so I just chuckled. “She’s married.”

  “She likes you though.” Georg shrugged with a slight smile.

  “Trying to make it up to me with flattery?”

  “No. She was looking at you in that certain way ladies do when… you know. They fancy somebody.”

  He was one shrewd subordinate, my adjutant, saying all the right things his boss wanted to hear. “Remind me to give you a raise when we’re back in Vienna.”

  Georg beamed, and I broke into laughter.

  _______________

  Nuremberg, July 1946

  I guess I was beaming so obviously that my guard, Henry, became curious about the picture I was studying for the millionth time.

  “Your wife?” he asked through the window in my door, nodding at the photo.

  I had been sitting at the table and writing something meaningless just to occupy my mind, but then gave up on the pointless activity and resorted back to my only solace, the only bright memory of my past and sometimes happy life – the memory of her, my Annalise – my love, my heart, and everything good that I didn’t deserve.

  “She was much more than that,” I replied, smiling softly.

  “May I?”

  There was no point in hiding her from everyone anymore. They had decided my fate by now, I only awaited the formal sentence, and, besides, everyone believed her to be dead. Even Dr. Gilbert had lost interest in my affairs, leaving me and my depression, which worsened day to day, to Dr. Golden
sohn.

  I got up and handed the photo to Henry. He took it carefully in his hands and studied it for some time. “She’s very beautiful.”

  “Was.”

  He frowned slightly, lifting his eyes to me, asking a silent question.

  “She’s dead.” I looked away involuntarily, a horrible habit that I had never gotten rid of. Of all the things I could never hide, I could not keep lies from the people I liked, and, apart from agent Foster, Henry was the only person who was kind to me here. I hated lying to him.

  “Oh… I’m very sorry,” he whispered handing the picture back to me and looking away as well; he, however, did so because he couldn’t find the right words to say.

  “Thank you.” I looked at the picture once again, before putting it back in my inner pocket.

  “What about the child?” Henry asked quietly.

  “He’s dead too.”

  “What happened?”

  “Air strike. During the battle of Berlin.”

  Henry went quiet for a moment, chewing on his lip, and then said barely audibly, “It must be horrible, losing your family.”

  “It is.”

  It was. God witness, it was. They weren’t dead, but I was already dead to them, and that was no better. I was separated from them by the ocean and several millions of lives that were on my unclean conscience, as the Soviet prosecutors correctly stated, and no miracle would ever bring us together, no matter how naively I still hoped for it. To see the two of them, after the verdict was given, just to have her touch my face one last time, like she did a long time ago, in some forgotten reality, back in Paris, was what I dreamed of in the darkest hours of my days.

  That’s when it all started, that’s when she started it, when she so carelessly reached out and touched my scarred cheek and awoke something that I never knew I had in me. She was that kind of a woman, my Annalise; she made me – a heartless and cold-blooded bastard – fall hopelessly in love with her with a single touch.